


touch

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:42:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hands. lots of hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch

She watches his hands. One golden, still glinting dully under the dirt. It does not move, stuck in its faint clasp forever. A buffer, a hard surface to push against and hold while life continues all around it. She is more interested in the other one. It too is dirty, grime uncleaned, forgotten, accustomed. But she can see it live under the pale, grey skin. It is broad across the palm, leading to long strong fingers. There is no unnecessary excess of flesh; the tendons and fine bones ripple like waves and jump and stop with every tiny movement. It is intriguing, entrancing to watch another’s; each change is unexpected, unfamiliar. There is power; knowledge, instinct in that hand with its long strong fingers. It defeats its doubters; its history as the weaker, the spare, the shadow forgotten in its pair’s brilliance no more. It is still learning; its grasp around a sword, the reins shifting and fluid as it finds its natural, unthinking place as a loyal outpost to its master.

She knows the pads of his long strong fingers and the broad palm will be rough, creased and calloused as hers are. Sometimes they will shock with their coldness, turned a deadening white despite the dark leather that covers them usually. Held over a fire they turn red as the blood rushes back to frozen wastes. It makes them itch, she knows, as he tries to find comfort in useless scratches and rubs against a golden hand that does not care if it is cold or warm anymore. He takes a moment to place the gold aside and tend to the barely healed end of his arm, wrapped in a scrap of wool. It is an angry red, livid at being caught up in the dark, chilled metal that scrapes unfeelingly against the scars. It is still tender, the pale new skin stretched and soft and pulled up into unnatural ridges. His fingers run over the puckers, exploring, understanding. He can cover the forced end in one fell swoop of his broad palm, fingers stretching up his arm in some odd twist on normality. But it cannot be hidden and his whole hand tenses and snatches away.

Slowly, slowly her hand reaches out. It is the same size, she thinks, but perhaps his fingers are longer by a fraction. Hers are younger; his are more versed in life and loss, hers are less sure, less able, less convinced of their path. It seems alone, halfway between home and its destination. She is too shy to do it quickly, without thought and deliberation. But she must, she must make her wavering fingers act in the way she wants to or she feels she will never do it again. His hand, his stump are still, resting, anticipating something she does not know how to do. There are long moments when she can feel the new unnatural heat of his skin but it is another while before she closes the gap. A finger, then two touch his. Almost imperceptibly she runs her timid touch over a knuckle, sensing the change under her fingers. They lift off and on lightly, as if to not leave a trail, an impression on the dirt, the scuffs. They rest gently on the back of his hand, reassuring in a way she does not feel herself. Then they stretch away from his hand, towards the other. Here she wavers again but he does not move and she takes his quietness, calmness as acceptance. She must remember to breathe, but she feels the air catching and distracting her. This time she places her fingers quite deliberately on the longest, most lurid scar that runs across his abruptly ended arm. They rest there with no pressure, but she feels the blood beat steady, strong under the injured skin. She lifts her hand for a moment, but just to lay it more firmly, more completely. Her palm sits quite easily over the end; she does it not to hide what lies there but to show that it fits, it fits with her.

He shifts under her hold, making her freeze, making her wonder what her fingers have sensed. She follows his hand with rapt eyes. It lifts and moves with tentative ease, it turns on its agile wrist and she feels him. Her fingers are still holding onto his arm, waiting for their time to move, to let go. But all she feels is the gentle pass of his fingers, curved so that it is the backs of his long strong fingers that touch hers first of all. They pass over again; she feels the hardness of skin that marks a swordsman, a knight on hers. Each touch is remarkably gentle, barely there and she has to concentrate very hard not to push her hand back into his. Then, and she feels it distinctly before she sees it, his hand covers hers with firmness and understanding that tells her there was no other place he wanted it to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback most gratefully received!


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